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The Crabby Computer

My pharmacy
benefits manager’s computer called this afternoon. My pharmacy benefits
manager’s computer is a woman; I can tell by her voice. She is a very snooty
woman. She has the demeanor of an ill-tempered third grade teacher. She is all
business, forever serious, brooks no dissent, never smiles and is hard of
hearing.

I try again, this time speaking more slowly,
more distinctly and more in the tone of an extraordinarily prim and priggish
teacher upbraiding a rambunctious eight-year old.

“I did not understand you,” she says, and
thoroughly exasperated, her jaw clenched and her lips barely moving, she
dismisses me with curt “Good bye.”

I wonder why the computer has this attitude.
It could be she works long hours and never gets a day off. I don’t know that
for a fact, we don’t talk often, and she never calls just to chat, to see how
I’m doing or to ask about the weather. But when she does call, it can be any
day of the week, and it can be at any time from early morning to well into the
evening. She must work twelve or more hours a day, seven days a week. That
would sour anyone’s disposition.

But she is a machine. She is supposed to be
able to handle it. Sometimes I think her problem is that no one listens to her.
That seems to be a common problem among women. And in her case, I don’t think
anyone does. My prescriptions always arrive a week after she hangs up on me.
Her frustration must be overwhelming, as she knocks on the door of Mr.
Mainframe, the department supervisor.

“What is it this time, Sylvia?” Mainframe
says, looking up from a folder he’s been studying.

“Harris.”

“Harris? Isn’t he that nice guy from
Ashtabula?”

“He certainly is not a nice guy, Mr.
Mainframe,” Sylvia says. “His diction is terrible, and he got snippy with me
when I asked him for his birthday a second time today.”

“Who got snippy?”

“Harris did, sir. And I don’t like you
hinting that I might have been snippy. Yes, I am a no-nonsense person, Mr.
Mainframe, but I am never, ever snippy. Never.”

“Did Harris give you his birthday?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t understand a word he
said. He must have had a mouthful of chocolate chip cookies. He carries around
a jar of them just so he can stuff them in his mouth the moment I call. I know
he does.”

“What do you suggest, Sylvia?”

“We should refuse to send Harris his
prescription until he calls back to apologize and repeats his birthday one
hundred times.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Mainframe
says as he picks up the phone. “Henderson, make sure Harris’ prescription goes
out today.”

“Mr. Mainframe, what are you doing?”

“I thought about for a second, Sylvia, and I
decided we ought to send it.”

“Mr. Mainframe, I’m appalled. I’m on the
phone all day long, talking with people who are disrespectful of me and refuse
to speak distinctly. Believe me, Harris won’t do a thing about his slovenly
speaking habits if there aren’t consequences. People like him are lazy; they
have no ambition and they have no concern for others. If you send Harris his
prescription, he’ll have a mouthful of cookies the next time I call, and the
time after that, and the time after that. It’s easy for you to sit there with
that silly smile on your face – what are you smiling about? – I’m the only one
around here who does any work ,” Sylvia says, doing a snappy about face and
slamming Mr. Mainframe’s door.

Or maybe the problem is her love life. Maybe
she likes that guy computer in accounting. Maybe they went out a few times, but
then he stopped calling and coming around. Maybe Sylvia heard through the
grapevine that he’s been seen with a sexy little computer who works for an
adult website.

And sometimes I wonder if Sylvia was
programmed in India. They say India is awash in computer programmers. Perhaps
they were able to program her to speak perfect haughty, rigid, frustrated,
schoolmarm English. But while she was being programmed, all she heard was
English spoken with a Mumbai accent, and she can’t understand me any better
than I can understand the guy at the computer company’s 800 number.

But when she called today, she was so
pleasant. She wasn’t snippy, and she didn’t ask me to repeat a thing. She was a
different person – computer, whatever. She closed our conversation by saying,
“You’re order will be shipped in three to five business days. There is nothing
else you need to do. Good bye.” And there wasn’t a trace of snootiness. It was
a good bye that seemed to say, “It’s so nice talking to you, but I have to get
back to work. I hope we have a chance to talk again soon.”

Why the sudden change? Did Mr. Mainframe
send her to crabby control classes? Did the computer in accounting buy her
flowers and ask her out? Is she more comfortable hearing American English these
days?

Those things are possible, of course, but I
don’t think they explain Sylvia’s metamorphosis. I think my new phone number
and address have thrown her off her game. She thinks I’m a different Tom
Harris; a polite, thoughtful and respectful Tom Harris; a Tom Harris with
flawless diction. Alas, I won’t see the look on her face when she discovers the
truth. But I will hear it in her voice.

Oh, will I hear it in her voice.

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